He scratches at his crotch and examines a scab on his elbow. “She’s not going to get away with it.”
“Why not?”
“Someone’s going to turn her in. Stands to reason. She comes home with a baby that she can’t breast-feed or who wakes the neighbors with his crying. What happens when the baby gets sick or needs a jab? What happens when he starts school?”
“That’s years from now.”
He waves at me dismissively. “What about a National Insurance number, or a birth certificate, or a driver’s license, or if he applies for a passport?”
“People will have forgotten by then.”
“You sound like you want her to get away with it.”
“No. I’m just saying that she might.”
Hayden makes a scoffing sound and I wonder if he’s talking like this to goad me or because he suspects. The creature slowly uncoils, slithering through my intestines, turning my bowels to mush.
He knows! He knows!
“Shhhhhh!”
He knows! He knows!
“Who are you shushing?” asks Hayden.
“No one.”
I start making up a bottle for Rory. Hayden watches as I measure each spoonful of powdered formula and tip it into bottles of boiled water.
“I thought you were still expressing.”
“This is just for backup.”
“Why don’t you let him suckle on you?”
“My nipples are still sore.”
“When are they going to be better?”
“I don’t know.”
“That woman who stole the baby—what would she be doing?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“How would she be feeding Baby Ben?”
“Using baby formula, I suppose.”
He knows! He knows!
“How do you think she got away with it?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe she faked a pregnancy—convinced everyone that she was having a baby,” says Hayden.
“It’s not likely though, is it? I mean—nine months of faking it.”
He picks at the dirt beneath his fingernails. “I thought that’s why the police came here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those two coppers—I thought they were looking at everyone who had a baby in the past two weeks.”
“I had Rory before Ben was taken.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, sounding noncommittal.
He lights a cigarette and cracks open the sitting-room window, kneeling on the floor to blow smoke outside. I can still smell it. I want to tell him to go downstairs, but I don’t say anything. Instead I wonder if the police are checking up on me. I haven’t registered Rory’s birth, but the law gives me a month. He doesn’t need a birth certificate, so I can put it off for longer without anyone knowing.
“You should call that woman,” says Hayden, who stubs the cigarette out on the window ledge.
“Who?”
“Baby Ben’s mum—you should find out how she’s doing.”
“I don’t want to bother her.”
“But she’s your mate.” His face lights up. “Fuck!”
“What?”
He gets to his feet. “We should call the newspapers!”
“Why?”
“You could sell your story.”
“I don’t have a story.”
“Sure you do. Your best friend has had her baby stolen. They’ll love it—one new mother talking about another, her mate. The heartbreak. It could be worth a fortune—I mean, at least ten grand, maybe more.”
“She’s not my best friend.”
“They don’t know that.”
“No!”
He’s not listening. “You could do TV interviews. What’s that show—”
“I’m not going on TV. Meg isn’t that good a friend.”
“But you said—”
“We did yoga together.”
“You’ve been to her house.”
“Once.”
“Have you talked to her since it happened?”
“No. I sent her a message saying I was praying for her baby. I was thinking of sending a card, but I don’t know if that’s appropriate.”
Hayden slumps on the sofa, angry that I won’t agree.
“We could use that money.”
“We’re fine.”
He spends the next fifteen minutes in a bad mood. Finally he says, “I bet they’re making money out of this. They’ll be suing the hospital and selling their story to the highest bidder. Can you imagine—the perfect couple, a TV star and his hot-looking wife and a stolen kid. They’ll be milking this for all it’s worth.”
“They’re not so perfect,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Jack left the house hours ago without giving me a reason. I watched him from the upstairs window as he marched past reporters, ignoring their questions, and got into his car. He did the same thing yesterday, not coming home until after I’d gone to bed.
“What were you doing?” I asked him this morning.
“Walking,” he said, making it seem like a stupid question.
I know that he’s under pressure. With each passing day he looks more dazed, like a polar bear kept in captivity too long, rocking from side to side. He keeps asking why the police haven’t found Ben. He knows I can’t answer the question, but he asks it anyway because it improves on the silence between us.
We don’t have a police officer in the house full-time anymore, but Lisa-Jayne or Annie visits every day, keeping us informed. It has been two days since the media conference and the public response has swamped the police hotline with thousands of calls, including dozens of fresh sightings, none of them confirmed. Amid the tsunami of new information are the time wasters, trolls, psychics, seers, and conspiracy theorists. I closed down my blog today because some of the messages were so toxic.
In the meantime, I go through the motions of motherhood. I make supper and turn down beds and kiss foreheads and sing lullabies. I hope someone is doing the same for Ben.
Cyrus says the woman who took him is probably childless, or has lost a baby, or is trying to hold a relationship together. I have known marriages like that. I’m pretty certain that two of my best friends had babies to make their boyfriends commit—men who were hovering on the threshold. Is that so wrong? Their marriages have lasted. They have more children and mortgages and all the trappings. If I had the courage to ask, I’m sure neither of those women would regret what they did to “close the deal.”
The police call me at nine. A station sergeant at Fulham police station tells me Jack has been arrested for assault and trying to take a woman’s baby.
“Oh my God! Is the woman all right?”
“She’s fine,” the sergeant says, “but she’s insisting that we press charges. I did explain the situation, but couldn’t dissuade her.”
“Where’s Jack?”
“We’re holding him in one of the cells.”
“Do I have to post bail?”
“That won’t be necessary, but someone will have to come and pick him up.”
“Can you put him in a cab?”
“I’d feel better if somebody came and collected him.”
I hang up and wonder if I should call my parents, but I don’t want them knowing about this. Waking Lachlan and Lucy, I put them in their dressing gowns and slippers.
“Where are we going?” asks Lucy.
“To get Daddy.”
“Where is he?”